I didn't answer it. Not yet.
The next question wasn’t about the river. Or the rules.
It was about him.
And what happens when a man who holds lines for a living finally decides to cross one.
Chapter 12
Pumbaa Was A Warning
JULIETTE
Themiddaysunpressedheat into everything: folding tables, water pitchers, the thin strip of shade beneath the awning. The hippo encounter was over. My pulse had caught up.
My body? Questionable.
Nick stood by the jeep, his shadow cut a jagged line across the red dirt. He hadn’t looked at me directly since we’d returned, but his attention tracked the edge of the camp—and me.
“Short perimeter check,” he said, his voice cutting through the midday drone of insects. “On foot. Stay within the cleared line.”
He paused, his gaze snapped to mine. He looked at the vehicle, then back at me. His jaw tightened—a momentary hesitation as if he were about to suggest I stay behind and polish my briefcase.
If he tells me to stay in the vehicle one more time, I’m going to file for an injunction against his pretty face.
I stood up before he could articulate the thought. “I’ve had enough of the vehicle for one afternoon, Mercer. Lead the way.”
He didn't argue. He simply turned, his stride hitting that repeatable, efficient rhythm.
We moved away from the tents, the packed silt of the camp gave way to loose gravel and hidden roots. The brush thickened into a wall of thorn trees and redgrass, radiating a heat that felt physical. Nick stayed half a step ahead, always keeping his body between me and the thickest cover.
I followed the pattern. His head moved in a steady arc—left, right, mid-range, distance. A mechanical loop of threat assessment. I matched my steps to his, finding the stable ground he left behind. It was a pragmatic way to navigate terrain that was actively trying to roll my ankle.
“Is this the part with the mandatory safety lecture?” I asked. My voice sounded a bit too crisp in the heavy air.
“This is the part where we see if the perimeter still holds,”he replied, his eyes never leaving the brush.
“Good to know. I’ll make sure to RSVP.”
A low, dry rustle came from the veld growth to our right.
Nick stopped. I didn't need a directive—the sudden lock of his shoulders was a universal stop sign.
Then—
the brush exploded.
It wasn't a predator. It was a blur of brown and black, a frantic, chaotic burst of motion that tore through the thorns with the sound of a thousand snapping pencils. A warthog, panicked by our presence, launched itself from the cover. It didn't move away—it moved across.
It was loud. It was fast. It was entirely too close.
Oh, hell no. Three near fucking murders in the bush, and now this? Pumbaa my fucking ass. I was not losing to pork with tusks.
My brain didn’t vote. My body initiated an unauthorized survival protocol. I simply ceased to be on the ground.
Bark scraped my palms. A branch caught me under the ribs, solid and unyielding. I hauled upward, my boots finding purchase on knots and ridges I hadn't consciously seen.
Stillness returned as quickly as the noise had started.
